Mark me baby. Mrak me baby. All night long.

My darkness wafts over the campus like a dead poltroon. Fingering our fat behinds, we chart a course for infamy. For our campus is home to a generational split. The old scientists, mostly with straight ethics of science. And the middle aged scientists, 30% of whom succeeded because they lied. In this world of trust, liars eat well. Belly up to the bar me bully boys and gurls. Get your fill here.

Fear not, for my minions are paid by me, and that guarantees their loyalty since I pick my minions from academia. Academics, the new generation, are molded into clay, ground down to dust, mixed with mud and thence made shapeless, lacking in principles. Flattening themselves to the whir of the moment, they find reasons to make new P.C. programs.

Ne'er do we, ne'er do we, do well - except for ourselves. Of course. Our pockets are lined.